


Any Eventuality

by earlgreytea68



Series: Lucky [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a cold infects the household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a cold. So here is a fic involving a cold.
> 
> I think knackorcraft looked this over for me absolutely ages ago. So thanks!!

It started innocuously enough. 

Lucky was fussy, cranky, cried whenever Arthur tried to put her down. So Arthur was holding her, making dinner one-handed and narrating for her as if it was a cooking show, and he happened to glance at her to notice her nose running. 

He thought nothing of it at first, grabbed a tissue and wiped it away. She made a face and a short protesting cry and tried to wriggle away from him, and then Eames walked in, portfolio in hand and loud garish shirt intact, because this was Eames’s Artist Persona. 

“E!” exclaimed Lucky in delight, and tried to leap from Arthur’s arms into Eames’s. 

“Hello, poppet,” Eames said, accepting her easily, and then, “Hello, love.”

“Hi,” said Arthur, and automatically shifted for Eames’s brief kiss. Eames kissed him hello and kissed him good-bye and Arthur had gotten used to that, somehow. He hardly thought about it anymore. “How’d it go?” he asked, and turned back to the stir-fry he was making. 

“They loved me,” Eames said. 

“Of course they did,” said Arthur. 

“They want more,” said Eames. 

Arthur turned to him and grinned and said, “Of course they do.” 

“If you’re trying not to be smug, you’re not achieving it,” Eames told him. 

“No, I always embrace being smug,” said Arthur. “I told you the art was good.”

“I thought that was just a line to get into my pants.” 

“You’re easy,” Arthur said, turning back to his food. “I don’t need lines.” 

“Arthur is smug,” Arthur listened to Eames tell Lucky. “Can you say ‘smug,’ Lucky? Sssssssssmmmmmmmuuuuuuuugggggggg.”

Lucky started crying instead. 

“Hey now!” Eames exclaimed. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. Eames was pulling Lucky up off the floor where he’d tried to put her, Lucky calming in his arms. “She’s needy tonight,” he said. “Wants to be held.” 

“Hmm.” Eames sounded thoughtful, but Arthur turned the stir-fry out of its pan and dinner was on the table and then it was bath time and book time and bedtime and then Arthur stripped Eames out of his pretentious artist outfit and they huffed laughter into each other’s skin that dissolved into groans and oaths and then fell asleep sprawled and tangled and Arthur didn’t think about how Eames had been thoughtful and Lucky had been fussy. 

They woke to Lucky crying in the middle of the night, which was something she’d seemed to have grown out of weeks earlier. 

Arthur said, “I’ll get her,” already on full-alert concerned wakefulness.

Eames mumbled something into his pillow, and Arthur slid out from underneath the arm he had flung across him. 

“Hey there,” Arthur said, making his way through the moonlight spilling into Lucky’s room. 

Lucky was standing in her crib. Upon seeing him, her cries subsided to whimpers, and she lifted her arms up for him. He picked her up and she cuddled in and he tried to determine the source of her distress. Her diaper wasn’t wet so he went to fetch her a bottle, even though Lucky didn’t normally need middle-of-the-night bottles. 

“What’s up?” he asked her softly, keeping his voice down for Eames’s benefit, as he made her the bottle. “Dinner was unsatisfactory?” He brushed a kiss over Lucky’s downy dark hair. 

Lucky mumbled something in which Arthur thought he heard the telltale _th_ sound that represented his name in Luckyspeak. Lucky could manage the _E_ sound at the beginning of Eames’s name but she was still bewildered the letters and consonants that jumbled together to form Arthur’s name. She usually made some vague noises and stuck a _th_ in there, and that was how Arthur knew she was speaking to him. There was a part of him that was going to be sad when Lucky got a better handle on words and no longer said his name as just a vague _th_ noise. 

He tried to put her back in the crib with the bottle he made for her but she protested, so he picked her back up and settled in the rocking chair that he and Eames used to read to her before bedtime. Lucky liked rocking, and she was passed out in his arms before she’d sucked on the bottle more than a few times. Arthur rocked a little while longer to make sure she was really asleep, and then put her back down in the crib. 

“She okay?” Eames mumbled groggily when Arthur crawled back into bed. 

“Sleeping,” said Arthur. 

Eames yawned and colonized Arthur’s chest. 

When Lucky cried again, the room was slightly lighter, although it was nowhere near dawn yet. Arthur sat up, frowning. 

“My turn, is it?” Eames asked, stretching beside him. 

“No, I’ve got her,” said Arthur, because now he was worried. He knew Eames thought he worried too much, but Arthur was pretty sure he worried just the right amount, and this was very unlike Lucky. 

“Hello,” he crooned to her, as he picked her up from her crib and she cuddled into him again. “What’s the matter, Lucky? Bad dreams?” In Arthur’s experience, bad dreams were the root of all bad things. 

Lucky snuffled into his chest, and Arthur settled in the rocking chair and listened to her heavy breaths, rocking them haphazardly with small taps of his foot against the floor. She was quiet and still enough eventually that he thought she must be sleeping, but he didn’t want to put her back down. If she was suffering from nightmares, he wanted to keep her close, wrap her in safety. So he snuggled into the curve of her against him and closed his eyes and let himself doze. 

He woke with a start at Eames’s step over the nursery doorway. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Eames murmured.

“Bad dreams, I think,” said Arthur. “I don’t want to put her down.”

“I’ll take her,” Eames offered. 

“I’ve got her,” Arthur said. 

“You’ve also got wall-to-wall conference calls and clients today,” Eames reminded him. 

It was true. It was why Eames had scheduled his meeting with the gallery for the previous day, because Arthur’s day had been more open; he was swamped with work today. 

“Go,” Eames told him, already bundling Lucky into his arms. “I’ll take the sprog. You get your beauty rest. I hate when you look hideous across the breakfast table.” 

“Shut up,” Arthur grumbled, and looked anxiously at Lucky, now sleeping soundly against Eames, not even registering being manhandled from one set of arms to the other.

“She’s fine,” Eames assured him, voice all hushed and soothing. 

“I know that,” Arthur said, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed, because he hated to feel irrational about Lucky but he couldn’t help it that he was a point man by nature and he knew all of the millions of things that could go wrong with such a precious, delicate, _tiny_ human life. 

Eames brushed his fingers over the back of Arthur’s neck as he left the room with Lucky, which made Arthur feel like a little less of an idiot but only because Eames’s touch just there was magic. 

***

The apartment was quiet in the morning when Arthur woke up. So he took a shower and got ready for his day and eventually found Eames sprawled out on the couch with Lucky on his  
chest. They were both sound asleep, but only Lucky was snoring. 

Arthur leaned over her, brushing her hair back from her face. Lucky’s snoring hitched for a second, but she just adjusted her position on Eames, snuggling into him harder, and resumed it.

“You’re in Daytime Arthur mode,” remarked Eames, stretching a little bit, “so it must be morning.” 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Arthur said, straightening. “I’m surprised she’s not up yet.”

“It was an eventful night.” 

“Does she seem warm to you?” 

Arthur watched Eames’s big hand cup Lucky’s face gently. Then he said, “Hard to tell. It could just be because she’s right against me and it’s warm in here with the sunlight coming in now.” 

Arthur frowned. 

Eames said casually, “What time is it, love?” 

Arthur glanced at his watch and told him. 

“You have a conference call in fifteen minutes,” Eames informed him. 

“How do you know my schedule so well?” Arthur asked suspiciously, because Eames was fond of claiming that he couldn’t possibly be expected to remember things about Arthur’s complicated life, whenever he crashed meetings he didn’t approve of or showed up late to things he didn’t like. 

Eames ignored him. “And you haven’t even had coffee yet. You cannot possibly conduct a conference call on no coffee. You’ll get a dreadful headache and take it out on the poor souls trying to work with you.” 

“I’m a joy to work with,” Arthur informed him. 

“As I always used to tell everyone in dreamsharing. ‘Arthur,’ I used to say, ‘is a _joy_ to work with.’”

“You’re so insufferable in the morning.” 

“Only before you have your coffee, petal. Off with you. Lucky and I will be fine.” 

Arthur looked back down at Lucky, still steadily snoring, checked his watch again, and decided there was nothing for it. 

He went to work. 

***

Arthur worked out of a close, cozy space up on the roof. It was like a little slice of landed-British-gentry-dom in the middle of Portugal, and it amused Eames. Although he also recognized that it suited Arthur. Arthur loved the sunlight, yes, and his office had tall wide windows that he kept open to the breeze off the sea in the distance but the rest of Arthur was all dark bookcases filled with books, an imposing old desk with a bunch of cubbyholes that _Arthur actually used_. When Arthur had found the desk in an antique shop and insisted on having it wrestled into the office space, Eames had gone along with it out of fond indulgence, thinking that Arthur didn’t have many impractical whims and he liked when he came across one. But Arthur used every inch of the old-fashioned-ness of the desk and Eames knew he was an idiot for having doubted his practical need for such intense organization. Arthur was a modern man of the digital age, but Arthur still took notes in moleskines; of course he would need an old-fashioned office.

The advantage of having Arthur’s office right in the flat with them was that Eames could remind him to stop working in person, which he always found was the most persuasive way to get through to Arthur. He didn’t really bother him during the day, when Arthur either taught militarization to clients who Arthur took to the rooftop through a circuitous route that kept Eames and Lucky’s existence a secret, or spent the day in conference calls, consulting on other militarization projects that he was overseeing. Eames tended to spend his day with Lucky. Sometimes they roamed around Lisbon together, visiting favorite parks and shops and cafes, or sometimes Eames set them up playdates with the people he’d become friendly with. When Lucky napped in the afternoon, Eames snagged the baby monitor and went up to his own rooftop space: his studio. 

Eames’s artist’s studio was the opposite of Arthur’s space. It was of identical size and had the same tall windows but Eames had purposely kept it light and airy and mostly empty. He had paint and he had canvases and he had not much else. He painted by the very excellent light that flooded the space, and every once in a great while Arthur would stride across the rooftop garden that separated their workspaces—they were optimistic in calling it a garden at present, but they both had very grand plans for it that they usually discussed mainly when they were drunk—and ask if Eames wouldn’t mind doing a quick forgery for him with the current client he was working with. On even rarer occasions, Arthur walked across the garden to press Eames up against the wall and then fuck him on the canvases. 

So Arthur worked from home, but it wasn’t like they saw each other a great deal under normal circumstances. Eames left him to his devices, usually, and Arthur left Eames to his. So Eames thought it was actually the first time he had ever knocked lightly on Arthur’s office door and poked his head around it. Usually he disturbed him at off-hours when he knew Arthur shouldn’t be working and had got caught up, and on those occasions he barged his way in as his right. 

There were voices coming from the laptop in front of Arthur, and Arthur looked up from it and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Uh, sorry, guys, give me a second,” he said to the laptop, and pressed a button that presumably muted them. “Something wrong?” 

“I don’t want you to panic,” said Eames very calmly.

“I don’t panic,” said Arthur. “I never panic.” 

“But I knew if I didn’t tell you until the end of the day you would be angry,” continued Eames, “so I thought I would just tell you now but it’s not a big deal at all.”

Arthur looked at him steadily. “What enormous deal are you referring to?” 

“No, no, the _opposite_ of an enormous deal.” Eames paused, and then just said it. “But I think Lucky might be sick.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. Then he turned back to his laptop and said, “Something’s come up, I’ll be in touch later,” and closed it. 

“You’re panicking,” Eames said. “I told you _not_ to panic.” 

“I’m not panicking,” snapped Arthur as he came around his desk and looked at Lucky. 

Lucky sniffled as pathetically as she could, because Lucky was a little bit manipulative and being raised by Eames wasn’t helping with that. 

“Her _nose_ is running,” said Arthur, appalled. 

“I think you’re panicking,” Eames told him. “It’s just a little cold.” 

“Let me see her,” said Arthur, now sounding icily calm, and Eames recognized exactly what this was, he was familiar with it from dreamsharing days gone by. Arthur had gone into point man mode. From hereon out there would be A Plan. 

Eames handed her across, and Arthur produced a handkerchief, because of course Arthur always carried a handkerchief, and wiped at Lucky’s nose. Then he passed a hand over Lucky’s forehead, around to the back of her head, cupping it lovingly. 

Eames said, “I know she’s warm, but I just took her temperature and it isn’t very high—”

“It’s not unusual for babies to get mild fevers when they have colds,” Arthur said. “They have to work harder to fight off colds than we do. Let’s go.” Arthur turned and carried Lucky out of his office, clearly expecting Eames to follow. 

Which Eames did, aware that his role was now to do as Arthur asked so that Arthur kept feeling capable and in control and didn’t panic. Eames didn’t relish Arthur in a panic over Lucky. 

Arthur, back in their flat proper, went to the desk he kept in the living area, unlocked it, and ran his fingers along the collection of moleskins neatly stacked within it. Then he selected one. 

“What’s the plan?” Eames asked him calmly. 

Arthur walked over to Eames and said, “Can you take her for a second?”

“I can take her for the rest of the day,” Eames said, as he cuddled her back in. “You should go back to work and not worry about this. I’ve got it covered.”

“I know you’ve got it covered,” Arthur said. 

“But you have it _more_ covered,” said Eames. 

Arthur just flipped open his moleskine. 

“And what’s that?” Eames asked, as Lucky sniffled again and Eames utilized Arthur’s handkerchief again. 

“It’s the ‘In the Event of Lucky’s Illness’ notebook.” 

“You have a notebook for that?”

“I have a notebook for everything, Eames,” answered Arthur absently, flipping through the pages. “How long have you known me?”

Eames glanced over at the desk and wondered at what the other moleskines were. He never snooped on Arthur, because he was aware that snooping destroyed relationships—he’d certainly destroyed his share that way—but he really wished Arthur would see fit to tell him. 

Instead, Arthur had pulled out his cell phone and was now speaking polite, perfect Portuguese to Lucky’s pediatrician, explaining the situation, proposing a method of treatment. Only Arthur would call a doctor and tell the doctor how he thought treatment should proceed. Eames shook his head fondly and tried to make Lucky smile by tickling at her cheeks. He succeeded; Arthur said Lucky couldn’t resist Eames’s charm. 

Arthur ended his call and Eames glanced at him and said, “Did the doctor agree with your assessment?” 

“Yes,” said Arthur shortly, already dialing again. 

“Who are you ringing now?” 

“Stephen.”

Eames absorbed that. “In New York?”

“Yes.” 

“For what?” asked Eames blankly. 

“Second opinion,” said Arthur. 

“Oh, of course,” said Eames, and tickled Lucky again. 

Arthur went over his proposed treatment again, in English this time, and Eames listened, amused, as Arthur said, “Shut up, just tell me if you agree.” 

When Arthur ended the call, Eames said, “What did Stephen say?”

“He agrees.”

“What _else_ did Stephen say?”

“Nothing,” said Arthur sulkily. “I’m going to run out and get medicine.” 

***

In spite of Arthur’s diligent medicine, by bedtime Lucky seemed slightly worse, cranky and fussy and kind of copiously gross. 

“I suppose it’s good that she’s getting it all out,” remarked Eames, when Lucky sneezed all over him as he dressed her for bed. 

Arthur fretted a little bit, feeling her skin almost compulsively, and then said defensively, “I’m not panicking,” when he caught Eames looking. 

Lucky kept waking through the night, and they took turns retrieving her from the crib and cleaning her poor face. Eventually, Arthur took a turn and never came back, and Eames found him sitting in Lucky’s bathroom with the shower on as hot as it would go, steam filling the tiny space. Arthur was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, Lucky sound asleep on his lap, leaned against his chest. 

“She’s coughing now,” Arthur said wearily when Eames poked his head in. “I thought this would help her breathe.” 

“Good thinking,” said Eames, and walked in and closed the door behind him. 

“You can go back to bed,” Arthur told him. “No need for both of us to sit here.” 

“No need for you to sit here alone,” rejoined Eames pleasantly, and sat on the floor as well, leaning on the wall opposite Arthur, next to the toilet. 

Silence fell. Eames tipped his head back and watched the shower pour water into the tub, steam billowing upward. 

Arthur said, after a moment, “I trust you.” 

“Thank you for the lovely non sequitur,” Eames said. “Did you think I needed to be told that?” 

Arthur looked awkward and fidgety, the way he did with anything approaching emotion. Arthur’s heart either revealed itself in torrents of words when he finally reached a point where he couldn’t hold back anymore, or in dribs and drabs that he had to pull out of himself. They were apparently in the latter situation. 

Arthur said, “I didn’t want you to think—I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of her.” 

Eames looked at him fondly. “Darling, I say this with love, but you’re a terrible control freak. If that bothered me, we would never have even reached the situation we find ourselves in.” 

“I just don’t want you to think…” said Arthur. And then he said, “One of the moleskines is for if anything ever happens to me. It has my parents’ contact info, information about where all of our money is stashed and how to get to it, what Internet accounts you should close and what you should keep open.” 

Eames’s eyes were sharp on Arthur, evaluating. “What makes you think anything is going to happen to you?”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t. I’m just…prepared for any eventuality. I’m a terrible control freak, or so I’ve heard.” 

“It’s truly one of your more adorable attributes,” Eames assured him. 

“I don’t have one for you.” 

Eames felt like he wasn’t keeping up with this conversation very well. “You don’t have one what?” 

“I don’t have a moleskine. For if something were to happen to you. I…I tried to make one, I tried to organize who I would have to contact, and where you leave your loose aliases so I could be sure none of them were stolen, and whether there would be any legal issues with Lucky, and…I couldn’t. I just—couldn’t. I tried to and I—You’re my one eventuality I can’t imagine, Eames. You went and told me that I’m a ‘we’ and now I can’t ever go back to being an ‘I’ and I just want you to know that. Every time I do something that makes it look like I don’t trust you, I want you to remember that I need you to know that I trust you to never doubt how much I trust you.” 

Eames looked across at him for a moment. And then he smiled. “You’re such a sappy, romantic idiot.”

“Stop it,” said Arthur, the tips of his ears turning pink, and he leaned down to hide his face against Lucky’s head. 

“Come on,” Eames said good-naturedly, standing and shutting the shower off. “Let’s try sleeping again. Take her into bed with us. You’ll feel better if she’s right there.” 

“You’d better not crush her,” Arthur warned him. 

Eames rolled his eyes. “Like either of us is an irresponsible sleeper.” He offered his hand, which Arthur accepted, and he pulled him to standing. And then he cupped his hand around the back of Arthur’s head and kissed him and murmured, “I love you, too.” 

“Sappy, romantic idiot,” Arthur told him, and kissed him back.


	2. Chapter 2

Eames woke first. That hardly ever happened anymore these days. In the beginning, he was the first awake fairly frequently. He spent many delightful mornings watching Arthur sleep deeply, sometimes even drooling a little bit, and whenever Arthur awoke he was always a little embarrassed and self-conscious until Eames kissed him out of it because Eames thought it was _amazing_ that his life had become seeing Arthur _sleeping like that_. 

Arthur had seemed to eventually catch up on all of the really good sleep he’d missed out on in his dreamsharing years. These days, Arthur was normally up before dawn, running through the Lisbon hills, along the steep and narrow streets. Eames thought he was mad for this, told him he was going to break his neck, but Arthur said things like _I’m not letting out bespoke pants_ , Eames, and Eames rolled his eyes at Arthur’s ridiculous idea that he was going to get fat and lazy because they didn’t run for their lives much anymore. 

(Eames had maybe put a few pounds on but he refused to acknowledge this and instead accused Arthur of having shrunk his trousers by bringing them to a frou-frou dry cleaner. Which Arthur ignored in favor of pointed hints that maybe Eames should jog a little more.)

Arthur took weekends off from running, but on Saturdays and Sundays Arthur was still up before him. Eames would find him in a patch of sunlight somewhere in the flat, first coffee of the day already ingested, a book open on his lap, because Arthur was working his way through some list of the hundred best books ever written. There were better weekend days when Arthur woke him up in very pleasant fashions, and those were Eames’s second favorite days. 

Because Eames’s favorite days were still days like this, when he caught Arthur sleeping, utterly trusting and completely relaxed. Arthur was on his stomach, his face turned toward Eames, half-smushed into his pillow, and Lucky was next to him, with her tiny hand stubbornly still resting on Arthur’s finger, as if prepared to grab it up again if she was moved in any way. Eames watched them sleep and marveled at his life and generally felt very dangerously content in a way he wasn’t sure he’d expected. Arthur had come home with a baby, and Eames had fallen more in love than he had already been, and he had agreed to move to Lisbon and to change his entire lifestyle, and his days were entirely Arthur and Lucky and painting and almost nothing illegal anymore, and he would have thought he’d be bored. But every day Lucky did something new and adorable and challenging, every day Arthur said something that made him laugh, made him fall even more in love, made him corner Arthur and snog him senseless. Eames thought he would be bored, but every day Lucky and Arthur managed to look at him like he was amazing, like he was some wonderful rare person they were delighted to have around, and Eames thought maybe someday he’d get tired of being looked at like that, but for the moment he was thoroughly addicted to it. 

So Eames found himself here, in Lisbon, in a serious committed relationship with a child, and he thought how the eighteen-year-old him who had flailed against everything conventional in every way would be utterly appalled. A piece of him thought, _You’ve only been doing this for less than a year. Eventually you’ll grow to find them both annoying._ But Lucky fluttered little baby snores and Arthur drooled on his pillow and a bigger piece of him thought, _No. Never._

Lucky woke first, her eyes blinking open. For a moment she looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to place herself, and then Eames murmured, “Poppet,” and she turned her head and looked at him and smiled sunnily. 

Eames smiled back and passed a hand over her wispy hair, sticking up over her head with a surfeit of electricity. 

Lucky rolled and crawled her way over to Eames and collapsed on his chest. 

“Feeling better?” Eames asked her. 

Lucky stuck her fingers in her mouth and gave him a very lengthy and detailed answer that made him think of Arthur. He imagined that Lucky was saying, in baby-speak, _Let me catalog all of my symptoms for you. First, my congestion: much improved._

Arthur stirred, waking himself up with a little snort that Eames kindly decided to ignore. He looked across at Lucky, who said good morning to him around the fingers in her mouth, a cascade of noises with a telltale _th_ included. 

Arthur smiled and said, “ _Bonjour, ma petite_.” Arthur eschewed terms of endearment in English; in French, all bets were off. If Eames was very, very clever in the application of his tongue and hands, he could get Arthur to break and murmur French endearments to him. It was on Eames’s list of Favorite Arthur Things. “How are you feeling?” 

“She’s much better,” said Eames. 

Lucky chose that moment to sneeze all over him. 

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t say she was entirely one hundred percent yet,” Eames defended himself. “Just better.” 

“Good,” said Arthur, and rolled himself out of bed. 

“Did you hear that, Lucky?” said Eames. “Arthur’s going to stop panicking over you now.” 

“I was never panicking,” said Arthur, who was stripping out of his t-shirt on his way to the bathroom. 

“Arthur was definitely panicking,” Eames told Lucky. 

Arthur’s t-shirt landed perfectly on Eames’s head. 

“Arthur has very good aim,” said Eames to Lucky, and heard Arthur laughing as he turned the shower on. 

***

Arthur was exhausted. This was the consequence of living a soft and easy life, he thought. Just a few months of it and he was already a disaster from a couple of nights of interrupted sleep. He had used to be able to go days with only quick, dozing catnaps during which he still remained alert. Now he found himself sitting at his desk listening to conference calls and feeling so tired that his head felt like it drifted a bit whenever he closed his eyes. Sometimes Arthur looked at his calendar and wondered when he’d gotten so old, if it had been the dawning of one particular day that had flipped the switch. 

Because he was tired, he was out-of-sorts. He was brusque and harsh with his clients, and by the end of the day his throat ached from all of the complaining he’d been doing. Luckily, he knew he had a reputation for being a perfectionist, so he figured it was good to keep everyone on their toes by being difficult every once in a while. 

He went directly back to the apartment after his last conference call of the day was over, not wasting any time with the odds and ends he would normally have indulged in. He was already loosening his tie as he went, feeling oddly strangled by it. He wanted to wrap himself up in a blanket and go directly to bed, which he never did. 

Eames was blasting fado music when Arthur walked in and singing it loudly to Lucky, who was stacking blocks into a tower and giving him dubious looks. 

She looked at Arthur when he walked in and greeted him with a long paragraph of speech. 

Arthur said, “Yes, sadly, he is for real, and we’re stuck with him,” and swept her up and kissed her. “How are you feeling, Lucky?” 

Eames turned the fado music down and said, “You both have zero sense of culture.” 

“Eames, you made me buy one of those 3-D painting things,” Arthur reminded him. 

“Those are _antiques_ now, Arthur,” Eames said, and kissed him hello because he did things like that. 

Arthur made a skeptical noise directly into Eames’s mouth and put Lucky back on the floor and flopped himself onto the couch because he couldn’t resist it any longer. Lucky began carrying blocks over to him and directing him where to put them. It was like living with a miniature version of Cobb, thought Arthur, as he obeyed. 

Eames came out of the kitchen with wine and cocked his head at Arthur. “You okay?” 

Arthur nodded. “Tired, because I am old and can’t pull all-nighters anymore.” 

“If you’re old, then I’m ancient,” remarked Eames, and put Arthur’s glass of wine onto the coffee table. 

“You _are_ ancient,” said Arthur. 

“Darling, you make me blush when you flatter me so,” said Eames. “Tell me how your day was.” 

Arthur complained some more about his clients, lubricated his throat with swallows of wine, and then he asked Eames about his day, and Eames talked about the feral cats he and Lucky were keeping tabs on at the end of the street and about a commission he’d taken for a sunset, “because that’s so bloody original an idea, there’s no way you’d be able to stroll down to a gallery and find a dozen paintings of sunsets.” 

Arthur smiled because he knew he was supposed to but he was busy trying not to fall asleep. Eames’s voice was soothing and familiar and the cadence of it was like a lullaby. He listened to the sounds of him cooking dinner and saying something about some art heist that had been on the news and had been _so_ poorly done and Lucky knocked over her tower of blocks, looking blissful over her powers of destruction. 

“Dinner,” Eames announced, and Arthur picked Lucky up and carried her into the kitchen, settling her in her high chair and automatically making her dinner. He could feel Eames watching him, and he surveyed what he’d done, worried he’d made some kind of error. 

“What?” he said finally, seeing nothing wrong, and glancing over at Eames. 

“You look like your head’s too heavy to keep on your shoulders,” said Eames, his eyebrows drawn together. 

Arthur’s head _did_ feel heavy. He said, “I told you: I’m tired.”

“Hmm,” said Eames. “I think it’s going to be an early night for all of us. An actual early night. No sexual euphemism in there.” 

The thought of having sex at that particular moment made Arthur’s head give a sharp, alarmed throb. Which he was definitely not going to share with Eames because then Eames would overreact and send him to the hospital or something. 

***

In the morning Arthur woke feeling terrible. Which was all very strange, because Arthur, well, didn’t get sick. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sick. But his throat was on fire and it hurt to swallow and the effort of getting out of bed seemed similar to climbing a mountain. 

_Stupid_ , thought Arthur. _You’re fine. You’ll feel better after your run._ So Arthur got himself out of bed and into running clothes and out into the early-morning Lisbon air. And he had barely gotten halfway through his usual morning run before he gave up. He’d already gulped down all of his water in an attempt to soothe his angry throat and he thought he’d topple over if he tried to run anymore. He limped his way home, so tired that the world was doing that weird drifting thing again. 

His timing was off. Usually he was back from his run before Lucky or Eames were up. But even though he’d only done half his usual run, he still walked into the apartment later than usual. Lucky was awake, and Eames was in her bedroom singing Shakira to her, and Arthur hid himself in the shower, hoping to feel better once he’d splashed water all over himself. 

He didn’t feel better. 

He walked out to the kitchen to find breakfast underway, Lucky in her high chair with cereal spattered all over. 

“Babathamama,” Lucky explained to him proudly, gesturing at her mess. 

“Impressive,” Arthur croaked at her. 

Eames, standing by the toaster clearly waiting for toast, looked over at him in alarm. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur said preemptively. 

“Usually the first sign of being fine is walking around defensively telling people you’re fine,” Eames agreed. 

Arthur rolled his eyes and poured himself a cup of the coffee Eames had made for him, and then he said, “I overdid the talking yesterday.” 

“It sounds like you overdid the shouting-in-a-stadium-at-the-top-of-your-lungs yesterday,” remarked Eames.

Arthur looked at his coffee and had no desire to pour it down his maligned throat. He really wanted an ice-cold lemonade. 

Eames said, “What will you have for breakfast, love? I’m making the last of that sweet bread you love as toast.” 

Another thing Arthur had no interest in. “I’m fine,” Arthur said. “Not hungry.” 

“Hmm,” said Eames, studying him. “I think you might be sick.” 

“I’m not sick,” Arthur denied. “I just overdid everything the past few days. It’s probably an adrenaline crash because I was panicking over Lucky.” 

Eames looked alarmed. “You’re saying you were panicking? You are definitely sick.” 

Then Lucky threw her entire bowl to the floor and Arthur took advantage of the chaotic clean-up to slink out to his office. 

***

Normally Eames’s mornings, after getting himself and Lucky ready for the day, were spent in and around different parts of Lisbon. He liked the people-watching, and so did Lucky. But Eames said to Lucky, “No outing today. We have to look after your stubborn Arthur.” 

Lucky looked around for Arthur, then back at Eames. 

“Yes,” said Eames. “Here we go to get him. I’m taking you with me because I think he’ll be less inclined to shoot me if I’m holding you.” Eames, Lucky settled on his hip, walked up to Arthur’s office and knocked politely. 

“Yeah,” Arthur called. 

Eames stuck in his head and looked at Arthur at his desk. His hair was a little mussed, as if he’d been laying on it, and his eyes looked glassy and the tip of his nose was red. And he looked miserable. Eames said, “You are in denial, but you are definitely sick, and I’m not letting you put any Somnacin in your system like that. So cancel all your face-to-face clients. I’ll let you do your conference calls if you insist.” 

Arthur scowled. “I already canceled everything. I am not an _idiot_ , Eames.” 

Eames was pleasantly surprised. “Well, good. How are you feeling?” 

“I am _dying_ ,” said Arthur passionately. 

Eames felt his lips twitch. He said, “Probably not.” 

Arthur made a dramatic noise and put his head down on his desk and said, “When I’m dead, you’re going to feel sad you weren’t nicer to me.” 

“You’re not dying,” Eames said calmly. “Come downstairs and go to bed. You’ll feel better after a nap.” 

Arthur lifted his head back up and sniffled loudly and said, “My nose is all stuffed up. So I can’t breathe. And you need to breathe to live. So therefore I’m probably going to die.” 

“Use your mouth, love,” said Eames. “And normally when I say that I mean something so much sexier by it.” 

“Oh, my _God_ ,” said Arthur. “If you talk about sex anymore, you’re going to make me throw up.” 

“Your enthusiasm makes you exactly what I look for in a lover,” said Eames. 

Arthur stood, still sniffling, and said, “I don’t get sick. So probably this is something really potent. Like Ebola.”

“Or it’s Lucky’s cold.” 

“Lucky was not this sick,” said Arthur. 

“Of course not,” agreed Eames, straight-faced. “Probably no one has ever been as sick as you are in the history of time.” 

“Tomorrow we’re breaking up,” Arthur told Eames. 

“Not today?” asked Eames innocently. 

“I don’t have the energy to break up with you today,” said Arthur. “It’s going to be a really spectacular break-up.” 

“Go downstairs and take a nap,” said Eames fondly. “You’ll feel better.” 

***

“I feel fucking _worse_ ,” said Arthur accusingly, when he woke up from his nap. 

“In what way?” asked Eames, brushing his hand across Arthur’s forehead. 

Arthur was too exhausted to even snap at him about that. He closed his eyes again and said, “I would like to claw my face open and remove my sinuses.” 

“Well, let’s not do that,” said Eames, and put Lucky onto the bed with Arthur. 

“I’m going to get her sick,” Arthur protested weakly. 

“You caught it from her. She’ll be fine. Here, Lucky and I ran out and got you medicine.” 

Arthur opened one eye and regarded the pills Eames offered. Then he said hopefully, “Do we have any lemonade?” 

“Do you want lemonade?” 

“Kind of,” said Arthur, but settled for the water Eames gave him. 

“I’ll have to get some,” Eames said. 

Arthur looked at Lucky, who sat by his hip chewing on her cat toy and looking at him anxiously. “I’m fine,” Arthur told her. “I’m just dying.” 

“He has a cold,” Eames corrected. “An itty-bitty cold.” 

“I hope you get this,” said Arthur darkly, and his phone rang where he’d thrown it on the bedside table. “If that’s a client, tell them I died.” 

Eames glanced at it, then said, “Oh, it’s your mother,” and answered it cheerfully. “Arthur’s sick,” he informed her, and then turned the phone on him. 

“Oh, my God,” said Arthur, “are you _facetiming_ with her?” He pulled the blanket up over his head. 

“Oh, Arthur, honey,” said his mother’s voice, “drink lots of fluids and get lots of rest.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Eames, still sounding cheerful. “Lucky and I are taking excellent care of him.” 

“No, they’re not!” Arthur called from behind the blanket. 

“Arthur says he doesn’t get sick so it’s probably Ebola so he sends you his love as his last message on Earth.” 

“He was like that when he had the chicken pox, too,” said his mother, and Arthur thought she sounded _fond_. 

Arthur peeked out from behind the covers and formed a gun with his hand and aimed it at Eames and pulled the trigger. 

Eames blew him a kiss and swept Lucky up off the bed and Arthur heard him saying something into the phone about Lucky’s latest finger-painting project. 

***

“Darling.” Eames’s voice was soft and gentle in his ear, and Arthur pulled himself up out of sleep muzzily, with effort. 

Too much sedative in the mix, thought Arthur, and tried to tell Eames that, only it seemed like a lot of effort. Eames would figure it out, thought Arthur. Eames was clever. He figured all things out. 

“Darling,” Eames said again, still soft and gentle, and Arthur thought there was a kiss on his ear, a hand brushing his hair carefully off his forehead. 

Arthur managed to make a noise in response. 

“I got you lemonade,” Eames said. “And I think maybe you should take some more medicine, because you honestly sound bloody awful.” 

Arthur wanted to say he’d already taken too much of something, then realized that no, no, he was sick, that’s what this was, it wasn’t an uneven Somnacin mix. He opened his eyes and said, “Lemonade?” because that had penetrated his haze. 

Eames nodded and held the glass up so Arthur could see it. He was crouched by the side of the bed, and there was bright light silhouetting him. 

Arthur sat up a bit, taking the lemonade. It was ice-cold in a pleasant way, but his head was congested enough that the act of swallowing made his ears pop like he was in an airplane. He stopped drinking in order to pant for some oxygen. 

Eames said again, “Darling,” and kissed his temple and pushed his hand through his hair again. 

Arthur, his scalp feeling over-sensitized, closed his eyes against the drag of Eames’s fingertips, feeling like it was almost too much. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Okay,” said Arthur. “I just need to sleep a little more. Wake me up in the morning.” 

“It _is_ morning,” said Eames. 

“Mmm,” said Arthur, and fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Eames watched Arthur sleep and thought, _He’s worse_ , which was not something he had anticipated. Now he suddenly felt bad that he’d been teasing Arthur all day yesterday. Now that Arthur apparently was no longer well enough to even complain, Eames felt truly awful. 

Eames walked back out to the living room, where he’d left Lucky settled in front of some anime. 

“Arthur’s sick,” Eames told her. “Like, really, properly sick.” He heard the surprise in his own voice. A silly little cold, he’d thought yesterday, and he still thought it was just a cold but it was a bad cold and Arthur was miserable and Arthur was right: Eames had never seen him get sick before, and this display of Arthur off-his-game and under-the-weather was…unsettling. Who the hell was he kidding, it was fucking terrifying. Arthur wasn’t like this. Arthur never stopped moving, had moleskines whose rules he followed for every situation. Arthur didn’t leave crises to other people, sleep fourteen hours straight, then sleep some more. 

Lucky looked concerned in response to Eames’s concern. She was surrounded by a deck of cards that she was taking turns crumpling and flinging all around her in complicated patterns, and now she waved one at Eames and babbled at him. 

“I don’t know what we should do,” Eames told her. He felt keenly the absence of Arthur’s guiding figure in the flat. It wasn’t that Eames wasn’t perfectly capable of taking care of himself and Lucky and Arthur, now that it was called for. It was that Eames, childishly, didn’t _want_ to. Eames had thrown his lot in with Arthur because he had wanted Arthur’s voice in his life. It was very silent with Arthur sleeping so heavily in the other room. 

Eames, feeling ridiculous, spent his morning wandering in and out of the bedroom, fretting. Lucky picked up on his mood and was fussy and difficult to please. She kept demanding Arthur, endless strings of _th_ noises spilling from her lips in increasingly irritated cadences, and finally Eames gave up and holed all of them up in the bedroom, letting Lucky build a train track on the rug while Arthur snored in the bed. 

At naptime, Eames carried Lucky into her own bedroom and settled her in her cot, because Lucky was a baby who thrived on a sleep schedule and was out-of-sorts if there was an alteration. Then Eames went back to the bedroom and stretched out on the bed next to Arthur and watched him sleeping. He was fitful in his sleep, tossing and turning, the opposite of the deep, passed-out sleeps Eames usually watched him during. Eames put a hand on his back, trying to soothe him, and Arthur did still, but his breaths sounded labored and heavy. And suddenly the one point of contact wasn’t enough. Eames, sitting up against the headboard, dragged Arthur over onto him, hoping the elevation would clear Arthur’s head a little bit. 

Mostly what it did was disturb Arthur out of his sleep. Arthur rubbed his cheek against Eames and mumbled, “I’ll get you sick.” 

Eames couldn’t say anything because he was scared he’d say, _I know you don’t have Ebola, but still, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you, so you need to get better immediately._

“Eames?” Arthur asked sleepily, after a long moment had passed. 

“Yeah,” Eames managed to respond without sounding like he was on the verge of tears. 

“Do you believe in God?” 

Eames was frozen for a moment in terror. “Arthur, if you see a white light, I fucking swear, you had better go in the other fucking direction immediately.” 

“What? No, no white light,” Arthur said, sounding confused. “I’m just wondering why we have noses.” 

Eames blinked. “Why we have what?” 

“If we’re a product of intelligent design, why do we have noses? It seems like a design flaw.” 

“I love you,” said Eames, because he didn’t know any more appropriate response than that, and still it was so inadequate, was going to have to stand in for everything else he needed to say. 

“Mmm,” said Arthur, and started snoring against him. 

***

Arthur’s mother rang again in the downtime right before dinner. Eames had just checked on Arthur, who was still sleeping, amazingly enough. So Eames was sprawled on the couch feeling listless and watching Lucky crash cars into spectacular accidents all over the furniture, when Arthur’s phone rang. Arthur’s mother didn’t ring very often, so Eames knew she was ringing to check up on him. 

And Eames was in need of someone to talk to, so he answered. 

“How is he feeling?” she asked. 

“He’s _worse_ ,” said Eames, and he knew he sounded mopey and dramatic but he couldn’t help it. 

“Aww,” said Arthur’s mother, clearly thinking he was an idiot. “He’ll get better. Is he getting enough rest?” 

“He does nothing but sleep,” grumbled Eames. 

“Make sure he gets lots of fluids, too. And not coffee. He’s always been too fond of coffee. We used to fight about it when he was in high school.” 

Eames considered that he’d been doing a terrible job getting Arthur to drink anything. Or eat anything, for that matter. 

“And make him chicken soup,” Arthur’s mother continued, as if reading his mind. “And if he’s not better tomorrow, then maybe we can start to worry. But I’m sure he’ll be better tomorrow.” 

“Thanks,” Eames said, because this was incredibly embarrassing but also really comforting.

“Give Lucky hugs and kisses from me,” she said. 

“Will do,” Eames promised, and ended the call. “Chicken soup for Arthur,” he told Lucky. “It’s a plan.” 

***

Eames had to go out to get the chicken soup, and when he and Lucky came back Arthur was on the couch watching television. Eames was so relieved he wanted to just put his head in Arthur’s lap and not do anything else for the rest of the night. Instead he made himself behave like a normal person and walked into the living room and said, “How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” said Arthur, even though he still sounded horrible and was all congested and looked like death warmed over. 

Lucky tried to launch herself over to Arthur, delighted to see him again. 

Arthur managed a small smile, with a shadow of dimples. “Hi, Lucky. How are you doing?” 

“Better than you,” Eames said, depositing Lucky gently on Arthur’s chest. 

“Thanks for being your usual supportive self,” said Arthur drily, and kissed Lucky’s hands one by one. “Where did you go?” 

“To get you chicken soup. And you _do_ seem much better. You’re being an arsehole again.” 

Arthur laughed a little, and it sounded terrible but at least it was a laugh. “Did you miss that? You’ll rue the day you told me that. I was tired of being in bed so I thought I’d get up for a bit.” 

“And are you hungry?” asked Eames hopefully. 

“Starving. Chicken soup sounds good.” Arthur was tickling at Lucky’s toes, barely paying attention to him. 

Eames had never been so delighted to be virtually ignored. 

***

By the time Eames went through Lucky’s bedtime ritual, Arthur was falling asleep on the couch. 

“And you should go to bed, too,” Eames told him. 

“I am tired of that disgusting bed,” said Arthur grouchily. 

“I changed the sheets for you,” Eames tried to cajole him. 

Arthur looked unconvinced. 

“I’ll come to bed with you,” Eames offered. 

“Eames, no offense, but I am leaking out of every orifice and not good bodily fluids in a hot, sexy way.” 

Eames laughed at him. 

“It isn’t funny,” whined Arthur. “It’s disgusting.” 

“Let me clarify,” said Eames. “I’ll come to bed with you and read out loud to you until you fall asleep.” 

Arthur looked over at him, and suddenly reached forward and grabbed Eames’s hand. “You don’t have to be doing all of this.” 

“All of what?” asked Eames blankly. 

“I don’t know. The chicken soup and the…lemonade and…the…this.” Arthur sniffled, which made his speech somewhat pathetic. 

Eames, after a moment, said, “Arthur. What do you think we’re doing here?” 

Arthur looked uncertain. “Having a conversation?” he guessed. 

“We’re a ‘we.’ This is what ‘we’ do for each other. What I’m doing is the sort of thing you do when you’re part of a ‘we’ instead of just a ‘you.’ And what you’re doing is the plus side of being a ‘we.’ You don’t have to be alone when you’re sick, trying to take care of yourself. You get to be coddled and spoiled until you’re better.”

There was a moment of silence. Arthur said, finally, “I’m just…still kind of bad at being a ‘we.’”

Eames smiled at him helplessly. “No, you’re really rather excellent at being a ‘we’ these days, because that’s what you do, you get really good at things. It’s just that you’re sick right now. Trust me, I expect you to repay the favor of all of this when I inevitably catch this cold from you. Although you’re going to have it easier than me, because you’re a brat but I’m going to be an entirely angelic patient.” 

“If I had the ability to make my head do normal things, I would snort with disbelief,” said Arthur. 

Eames chuckled. “Come to bed, darling. You’re going to feel a thousand times better in the morning.” Eames tugged him up. “And if you don’t,” he continued, leading him toward the bedroom, “then it’s definitely Ebola and it’s been nice knowing you.” 

“Asshole,” Arthur complained. 

Eames chuckled again and kissed Arthur’s head haphazardly. 

Arthur retreated to the en-suite to change because he said he felt too gross to get back into bed the way he was. Eames found Arthur’s book and settled in the bed, ready to read to him, and eventually Arthur came out and crawled in next to him, curling onto his chest. 

“It’s not that I’m cuddling,” Arthur said drowsily into his neck, “it’s just that I’m very tired and you’re kind of comfortable.” 

“‘Kind of comfortable’?” Eames echoed, amused. 

“A little bit,” Arthur mumbled. “Don’t let it go to your head.” 

“Oh, Arthur, you insufferable prick,” Eames murmured into Arthur’s hair. “Never, ever leave me again.” 

“I’ll try to complain as much as possible in the future,” Arthur managed sleepily. 

“I’m actually looking forward to it,” said Eames. “Should I start reading now? What page are you on?” 

Arthur snored in response. 

***

Arthur woke feeling like a completely different person. He took a lovely, deep breath, marveled at the functioning of the human respiratory system, and snuggled a little harder into the pillow of Eames’s chest under his head. There were advantages to being a recovering sick person, Arthur thought, and the unabashed cuddling was one of them. 

Eames knew he was awake, because they were far too used to each other’s sleeping and wakefulness giveaways. He scratched his fingertips along the line of hair curling on Arthur’s nape and murmured, “Feeling better, darling?” 

“Much,” Arthur said, and stretched luxuriously. “Lucky’s awake,” he remarked, because he could hear her talking to herself in her bedroom. 

“Keeping herself occupied for the time being. I thought we could cuddle a little more. We don’t cuddle enough when you’re not disgustingly ill.” 

“That’s because cuddling is stupid,” said Arthur, although he couldn’t get himself to say it with much conviction. 

“Oh, Arthur, light of my life, can we go back to when you were sick and wanted to burrow into me like a tiny kitten?” 

Arthur lifted his head in horror. “I didn’t do that. Did I do that?” 

Eames gave him that stupid smirk he hated. 

“I hate that smirk,” Arthur told him sulkily. 

“No, you don’t,” Eames said. “You told me how much you loved it when you were sick.” 

“No, I didn’t,” said Arthur. 

“Yes, you did. You were high on cold medication. It was utterly fantastic. ‘Muffin,’ you said—You were calling me ‘muffin.’”

“I was definitely not calling you ‘muffin,’” Arthur said, “I don’t even know how high I would have had to be to call you ‘muffin.’”

Eames ignored him. “‘Muffin,’ you said to me, ‘I adore your smirk. And cuddling. And the way you sing off-key. And the way you wear your hat. And the way you sip your tea. And the way you changed my life.’”

“You’re just quoting Gershwin now.” 

“That was another thing you told me when you were sick. ‘Sweet cheeks,’ you said to me, ‘I really love Gershwin.’”

“Well,” said Arthur grudgingly. “I don’t _mind_ Gershwin, but I definitely didn’t call you ‘sweet cheeks.’”

Eames grinned at him like he was adorable, which was pretty much Arthur’s favorite expression in the world. Arthur settled his chin on Eames’s chest and thought that he wanted to sprawl there all day and just _look_ at Eames. They had, honestly, never been together without a baby, so there had never been a lazy time when they just spent all day in bed with each other. And Arthur wasn’t even thinking about sex, Arthur just wanted the time with Eames, who had just taken care of him like it was a totally normal thing to do, like maybe Arthur would spend the rest of his life never having to be alone in the caretaking, always having someone there to pick up the load if he faltered, to actually _take care_ of _him._

“Thank you,” Arthur said, trying to say it not the way he said thank you for cups of coffee and the newspaper in the morning, but the way he wanted to say _thank you for showing me what I didn’t know I was missing all this time._

Eames’s hand was soft as it moved through his hair and over his face, his thumb finally coming to rest in a dimple. “Darling, there’s nothing to thank me for,” he said, looking as honest as Arthur had ever seen him. 

Arthur said, “Let’s spend this entire day in bed. We can get Lucky, too. If we bring her blocks in here, she’ll spend all day being the tyrannical foreman of her building site on our blankets.” 

“It was inevitable she’d turn out to be Cobb, you know. She knows she’s got you running point, watching her back.” 

“She isn’t Cobb, she’s an architect,” Arthur said. “Just a bossy one. She gets that from you. You’re very bossy.”

Eames snorted. “Not as bossy as you are.” 

“I’m only bossy because I’m right,” said Arthur. “There’s a difference.”

“See, this is how I know you’re feeling better,” Eames said. “But I canceled all of your conference calls and clients anyway, because you do need to spend today in bed. You need another day of rest. That’s what most people do wrong, you know. They try to do too much too fast.” 

The mention of the cancellations had Arthur saying thoughtfully, “What day is it?” 

“What if I told you it was October?” asked Eames, as if this was a joke. 

“I know it’s not October.” Arthur sat up, suddenly alert. “Eames, you’ve got your second gallery meeting today.” 

“How are you remembering that? Your head is supposed to be all full of mucus.” 

“There wasn’t much for you to cancel today on my schedule because I’d cleared most of it so I could watch Lucky while you went to the gallery,” Arthur reminded him. “You’re still going to the gallery, right?” 

“Arthur, you don’t feel well, I can just—”

“I am better,” Arthur said. “Look at me. I am much, much better. I can handle Lucky. You need to go to the gallery.” Arthur gave Eames a little, ineffectual shove to try to get him out of the bed. “You need to go convince them all that you’re one of the world’s greatest living artists. Which I know you can do because of what an incredible liar you are.” 

“You manage to make that sound sweet, and that’s why I love you,” Eames told him. And then, “Are you sure you’re going to be—”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” said Arthur, “hurry up and get ready.” 

***

Lucky seemed to sense that he didn’t have the energy to run around after her, so she only made him run around a little bit before graciously allowing him to collapse onto the couch. Eames had found a large pair of dice too big for her to choke on and Arthur watched her practice rolling them across the floor and then chasing after them to retrieve them to do it all over again. 

When his phone rang, he assumed it was Eames on his way home, telling him what a huge success it had been and how he was going to pit galleries against each other in a war to carry his art exclusively. 

Instead it was his mother. 

“Hello,” Arthur answered. 

“Oh! Arthur!” exclaimed his mother. 

Arthur lifted his eyebrows. “You sound surprised that I’ve answered my own phone.” 

“I assumed it would be Eames. You must be feeling better.” 

“Much better,” he confirmed, trying to dodge Lucky’s grabbing for his phone, because Lucky assumed that all phone conversations needed to include her. 

“Oh, good. Eames was so worried about you, honey. It was adorable. Don’t tell him I said that.” 

Arthur smiled and said, “I won’t.” 

***

Eames arrived home to find Arthur heating up soup in the kitchen while Lucky made an intense piece of art on her highchair tray with sweet potatoes. 

“How’d you do?” he asked, all anxious concern, as if Arthur was about to crumple. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur said impatiently. “How did _you_ do? How much money are they throwing at you? Did they compare you to, I don’t know, Renoir?” 

“Hello, poppet,” Eames said to Lucky, dropping a kiss onto her head on his way past her highchair. 

“Batatama E!” exclaimed Lucky in greeting. 

“Renoir?” Eames said, sounding amused, as he pressed himself behind Arthur and slid an arm across Arthur’s abdomen, nudging him back against him. “Is that what you think of my art? Renoir?” Eames brushed a kiss over his earlobe. 

Arthur stirred the chicken soup and quirked a smile at it. “I don’t know other artists. I only know you. You’re one of a kind, I wouldn’t compare you to anyone.” 

“That’s what they said, too,” said Eames, his voice dripping with unmistakable delight, and kissed the side of Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur grinned now. He couldn’t help it. “Better than being compared to Renoir?” 

“Better than being compared to Renoir,” confirmed Eames. 

Arthur turned in Eames’s arms and shifted them a couple of steps away from the stove, mindful of the hot soup sitting on it. He said, “Good. I’m glad they were smart. I’m always happy to be saved the effort of shooting people.” 

Eames laughed and kissed him properly, and Arthur felt like it had been a while since he had been properly kissed by Eames, because he had spent a long time recently being gross. Being properly kissed by Eames was like coming home. Arthur hadn’t left home, but he still had the impression of getting home from a long journey, finding everything just as he’d left it, relaxing into a space that had already been made perfect for him. 

And, to make things better, Eames had clearly had a fantastic appointment with the gallery. There was joy in his kiss. 

Eames pulled back from the kiss, leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, and said breathlessly, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Arthur said, and brushed his hand through Eames’s hair, leaving it to rest on the back of his neck. 

“I’m glad you’re better,” Eames said. 

“I’m glad things went well with the gallery.” 

“Bagagabagamata,” contributed Lucky, and banged her spoon against her tray for extra emphasis. 

***

Arthur, for all that he was feeling better, still found himself dozing in bed much earlier than normal, casting his book aside and drowsing against Eames’s shoulder. Eames was doing some kind of logic puzzle thing, and sometimes Arthur made comments, spying on what Eames was doing, but tonight he just let his eyes close and enjoyed feeling poorly enough to really appreciate the warm comfort of Eames and feeling well enough to actually enjoy the warm fuzz of leaning into Eames. 

“Were you worried about me?” Arthur asked, remembering what his mother had said. 

“I always worry about you, darling,” Eames answered, sounding distracted, like he was answering by rote. “You work yourself far too hard and you’re always _exercising_ and _eating healthy_ , it’s really not good for you.” 

“You’ve got that backwards,” Arthur said, rubbing his cheek against Eames’s t-shirt, which was wonderfully worn and soft. “But I mean with the cold.” 

Arthur sensed Eames put his puzzle aside, and then one of his hands landed on the back of Arthur’s head, pushing him closer against him, while Eames pressed a kiss to his temple. 

“I was terrified,” Eames said. “I don’t like it when you’re sick. You are not to be sick ever again, do you hear me? I don’t know why you have a moleskine for what I should do if something were to happen to you, I refuse to ever allow anything to happen to you. No moleskine would help me in that circumstance.” 

Arthur said, “I’m sorry I worried you.” 

“It’s alright,” said Eames. “You just have an inferior immune system. I’ll have to take care of Lucky next time she gets sick.” 

“There is nothing inferior about my immune system,” grumbled Arthur. 

“Which of us caught the baby’s cold?” asked Eames evenly. 

“You’ll probably wake up with a sore throat tomorrow,” said Arthur. 

Eames chuckled. “Promise me you won’t panic if I do.” 

“I don’t panic,” said Arthur. 

“You panic constantly,” said Eames fondly. “You just hide it really, really well.” 

“You think you know me so well, don’t you?” said Arthur, a bit sulkily. 

“Yes,” said Eames simply. 

Arthur thought about it. Then he said, “Okay. Fine. Yes,” and kissed Eames just so he could avoid the smugness that would have resulted from that. 

 

THE END.


End file.
